Heroic Measures (continued)

Walter rose from the well-worn chair and went to the small kitchen. He glanced at the clock. It was early afternoon, too early for Scotch, even though he truly wanted one. It was simply one of the rules that he lived by: other than perhaps a cocktail over lunch, gentlemen did not indulge in hard drinking before the evening hours. And it was more than simply adhering to a personal code of conduct. He had seen too many comrades and heroes—on both sides of that thin gray line—descend into alcohol-fueled disrepute and oblivion.

He settled for tea, quietly pleased to find that he still had a small supply of real English tea. Although there were many teas labeled as “English” here in the States, very few were authentically English. Walter had found very few shops that carried the authentic blends, and they tended to cost a bit more than their Americanized counterparts (sometimes as much as a bottle of decent Scotch!), so he used them sparingly.

He filled the kettle with water, placed it on the stove, and waited for it to boil. He knew that it could be done more quickly in the microwave oven—three to four minutes and, ping, hot water—but it never tasted the same to him as when he allowed the water to come to a proper boil. Maybe it was the anticipation, he mused with a faint smile.

While he waited, he busied himself with finding a proper teacup, taking the milk out of the refrigerator (noting that he would be needing to venture out to the market in the next day or so), and then pondered the question of whether he wanted to sweeten it with sugar or honey. He had settled on the first when he heard the electronic chirp of the telephone. For a moment, he did not recognize the sound. His mind, suffused with pleasant memories of the past, had expected a much different sound.

The handset was missing from its stand on the kitchen counter, meaning that he must have taken it with him into the living room. It repeated its insistent chirp and, after checking the progress of the tea kettle, Walter went looking for it.

He found it where he expected to, standing upright on the table beside his chair. It was halfway through its third cycle of ringing tones when he silenced it. The small display on its front told him nothing: Unknown Caller. Probably some charitable cause asking for money. As far as he could remember, all of his bills were paid.

No one spoke when he placed the handset against his ear.

“Hello?” he said, although it was as much a statement as a question.

“Walter,” the voice at the other end said. Although he could not be certain, Walter thought it sounded pleased.

The connection seemed poor, as there was a lot of noise on the line. Walter had many experiences with dropped and garbled calls from mobile callers, but this seemed different. It did not sound like the caller was in a place with a lot of background noise, but more like they were calling from a pay phone or somewhere with a poorly maintained telephone service.

“Are you there, Walt?” the voice asked.

Through the hisses of transmission static, Walter could not identify the voice. Recognition nagged at the back of his mind, but he figured it was trying to sort through the possibilities. Actually, he realized, there could not be that many—at least not that many who would contact him by telephone. Most of his contact with previous colleagues—what little there was of it—came chiefly through e-mail or the occasional personal encounter.

“Yes,” he answered, still somewhat tentatively.

“Can we meet somewhere? Soon?”

Walter frowned. Meet? Who . . . ? His mind finally presented him with its unverified identification of the caller.

“Red?”

Walter thought he heard a faint chuckle through the hissing static on the line. “Indeed it is,” the voice agreed. It resumed its more somber tone. “Can you meet me somewhere?”

Walter considered the question for a moment. He could hear the whistling notes of the tea kettle building toward a crescendo.

“Would you like to come here?”

There was a pause while Red seemed to deliberate on the question. “Sure,” he finally answered. “That would be okay. You still at the same place?”

“Yep,” Walter replied after thinking for a moment whether it was true. It had been a long time since he had seen Red in person outside of some event at a television studio. To be certain, he recited his address for Red.

“Thanks, Walt,” Red’s voice said. “I’ll see you shortly.”

The line static faded and the line went silent. Walter glanced at the handset’s display: Call Ended.

Shortly? Then Red must be somewhere nearby, Walter realized.

The day had just started to become even more interesting.

#

September 7, 1977 . . .

The two doctors, whose names Walter could never remember, conferred quietly over items on Walter’s chart. One, he recalled, had the last name “Bernat” (pronounced “bear-nay”, something like the French sauce Walter had often thought with a suppressed smirk). He was a somewhat stout man, but with a sturdy plumpness that gave the hint that he did not possess an entirely overweight physique. Other than for his olive-colored complexion that spoke of his Mediterranean, his most distinguishing feature was a broad, almost bushy mustache. He spoke with an accent that was neither French nor Middle Eastern, and Walter had failed to identify it so far.

The first name of the other physician was “Robert”. Whatever his last name was, Walter had never caught it. Bernat always referred to him as “Robert” and, if he had ever been paged over the speaker system, Walter had not known it was him. While each of the two doctors seemed mildly puzzled in their own way, neither appeared to be particularly concerned by the results they were seeing. Nearby, a young nurse, who looked not much older than Walter, fidgeted near the bed. She was probably waiting to hear whether to tuck him in for another day’s stay or to prepare him for release. For both of them, he thought, the suspense was unnerving.

Walter watched as the two physicians seemed to come to an agreement. Dr. “Robert” nodded and then approached the bed.

“Walter,” he said, putting on what Walter presumed was intended to be a comforting and confident smile (although it did not seem to reflect either of those two traits). “I don’t think there’s much more we can do for you here.” He tapped the chart in his hand. “You’re improving nicely, getting up and around, and,” he added with a slightly wider smile that felt even less genuine, “I’d imagine you’d prefer to get back to having home cooking than what passes for food here.”

Walter had little problem agreeing with the last statement. It was not that the food here at the hospital was terrible; it just tended to be bland and therefore not particularly appetizing.

“We’d like to run one last test,” he went on, exchanging a momentary glance with Bernat, “and then release you.”

Walter almost sighed. Another test? Over the past few days, he had been poked, prodded, stuck, measured, weighed, and subjected to more types of personal indignities than he could have ever imagined. He remembered how his grandmother complained over meals about how her doctors treated her. Walter knew he would have far more sympathy for her tales in the future.

“That sound okay to you?” Dr. Robert concluded.

Walter looked toward Abigail, not that there was really anything to discuss about the matter. She gave him a warm, comforting smile and squeezed his hand gently. Near the door, his parents looked visibly relieved.

Walter gave Dr. Robert a nod. The physician smiled back and patted Walter on the leg.

“Good, good,” he said, motioning toward the nurse. “It shouldn’t take long.” He murmured something to her in low tones. She nodded her understanding throughout and then headed out of the room.

“Mr. and Mrs. Eastman,” the doctor addressed Walter’s parents. “If you’ll sign this release, we’ll run these last set of tests, and then you should be free to take him home.”

Walter’s father took the clipboard that was handed to him; his mother stared down at it as if it carried something loathsome. He could not blame her. During the past several days, they had probably signed more of such forms than they had ever imagined they would see in their worst nightmares. His father, though, read over the form and, his lips tight with determination, signed the bottom. With an expression of granite stoicism, he handed it back to Dr. Robert. The physician checked it and then looked up as the nurse returned.

She paused at the door pushing a wheelchair, unable to enter because of the position of Walter’s parents. Walter eyed it in surprise. He had assumed that, like almost all of the other tests, they would conduct these final ones here in his room. Walter felt Abigail’s hand tighten its hold on his.

Dr. Robert seemed to sense everyone’s discomfort. “It’s quite all right,” he said, in a calm, not-quite-soothing, tone. “The equipment we need is located in another section of the hospital.” He gave them all what he probably thought would be interpreted as a self-deprecating smile. “It’s still too large to move it around the building.”

Everyone else in the room seemed to accept the explanation, relaxing slightly. Something in the man’s words, though, bothered him: still too large? For some reason, this suggested to Walter that whatever this equipment was, it was apparently a very new design or even potentially experimental. He wished now that he could read the form that his father had signed to see if it gave any hint of what was going to be done to him and how.

The wheels on the chair squeaked and his parents stepped guiltily aside, allowing the nurse to enter with it. She pushed it to a position beside the bed and waited. Dr. Robert nodded to her and then motioned for Walter to climb into it.

Walter eased himself off the bed and then lowered himself into the waiting chair. He still felt conspicuous and nearly naked dressed only in pajamas and a bathrobe, and waited while the nurse dutifully tucked a light blanket onto his lap so that it draped down over his legs.

“We’ll be back shortly,” Dr. Robert announced to the room. “You can start packing his things for release.” He gestured for the nurse take Walter out of the room. Dr. Robert followed, trailed by Bernat. Walter realized, as they moved down the brightly-lit corridor, that Bernat had not said a word to anyone after his final discussion with Dr. Robert.

Dr. Robert accompanied them to the elevator. He pressed the button to request a car and then said, “I’ll meet you down there in a few minutes.”

The elevator chimed and the doors opened. As the nurse pushed him inside, Walter thought, Down there? There was such an ominous suggestion to the phrase. Walter knew, intellectually, that many hospitals kept their larger laboratories in their basement areas where there tended to be open area and it was easier to shield sensitive equipment from possible interference.

No one spoke during the short ride downward. Walter could not see the nurse’s face, as she stood behind him. Bernat stood to one side of him and Walter could see part of his profile. He appeared tense and remained silent the entire time.

There was another chime, but the doors did not open immediately. Tight-lipped, Bernat waved his badge over the small dark panel below the elevator controls. A different tone sounded and the doors parted. The corridor ahead was empty and seemed to impart a much more sterile atmosphere than the hospital floors above had. Maybe that was by design, Walter considered, intended to project an air of modern, state-of-the-art expertise. If so, he decided, he drew little comfort from it.

The trio moved into the corridor and passed several doors. Many of them seemed to be offices or storage rooms, but there were travelling just swiftly enough that he did not have quite enough time to make out what the signs on them said. They stopped outside a large sealed door and Bernat swiped his badge again. There was came the sound of a mechanism moving (the door lock disengaging, Walter guessed) and then a faint hiss like escaping air as the door was opened. They entered and then the door was closed behind them.

#

September 7, 1977 . . .

Walter’s fears eased somewhat when he saw the equipment. Even though their trip down in the elevator and through the corridor had been brief, there had been sufficient time for his mind to construct images of an immense apparatus, of himself trapped in the midst of diabolical-looking machinery being subjected to . . . to . . . to what he would be subjected he had never quite made it to before their trip down here had ended.

Dr. Robert led them to a small cluster of equipment. Near it were several panels, a handful of small displays, and a single platform about the size of a hospital bed. Walter noted that was exactly what it seemed to be: a standard-issue hospital bed stripped down to its basics, used because it was convenient and available. None of appear particularly menacing, and yet Walter could not completely dismiss a vague stirring of uneasiness.

Turning to address Walter, Dr. Robert began “Walter, he said, “we done just about every biochemical test we can available to us here.” He frowned slightly, his eyes darting for a moment toward Bernat without ever quite making contact. “At this point, nearly all of them have come back normal,” he went on. “Or within ranges that we accept as normal.” Something shifted in his eyes. “But there’s still something that doesn’t quite add up in these results.” He slapped the clipboard against his open palm. “It might be nothing,” he said, clearly not believing it. “But I want to make sure.”

He turned and gestured toward the collection of equipment. “This will measure the electrical fields within your body,” he explained. He added a weak, almost apologetic smile. “We typically use it for training purposes on fresh cadavers to demonstrate how nerve impulses work.”

Walter felt a sudden chill. His earlier disquiet blossomed anew.

“Rest assured,” Dr. Robert continued quietly. “It’s been thoroughly cleaned.”

Walter found that the declaration did nothing to ease his growing fear.

“The tests shouldn’t take long,” the doctor said. “It usually takes longer to set up the experi—prepare the patient than to complete the tests.” He swallowed, looking at Walter with what seemed to be sincere contrition for his oratory lapse.

His eyes moving between Dr. Robert and the makeshift platform, Walter tried to decide whether he could refuse to participate in this procedure. Sure, his father had signed the release form, but that did not mean that he had to do it. Did it? Despite his misgivings, a part of Walter’s mind prodded at him to allow the tests to be performed. It did not seem driven by any need to submit to authority, but from something else entirely. He remained bothered, though, by the fact that Bernat had continued to remain silent since before they had left the room.

“Okay,” he agreed in a quiet tone that he hoped did not sound too meek. “I just want to go home.” While that was certainly true, it was not truly his chief reason for agreeing to the testing.

Dr. Robert flashed him a quick smile of approval. Even Bernat seemed to relax slightly, and that eased some of Walter’s disquiet. The nurse helped him stand and guided him to the bed, helping get him properly positioned on it. She did not seem to share the same underlying apprehension that the two physicians shared. That, or their behavior was driven by something else entirely and she had no reason for any such concerns. She seemed to exhibit no particular curiosity about the chamber or its contents, as if she had been here many times before. Walter doubted that she was their obedient minion, without conscience of her own. He had not received that kind of impression of her at any point during the past few days that she had helped care for him.

Once he was in place, Dr. Robert spoke to the young nurse, dismissing her. “That’ll be fine for now,” he told her. “We’ll let you know when we’re done here.”

She nodded obediently, giving Walter a quick glance. “Yes, doctor.” As far as he could tell, there was no hint of warning or menace nor, he found to his disappointment, even a hint of personal interest. She exited the chamber. Walter could hear the door seal itself again behind her.

While Dr. Robert started and adjusted the various pieces of equipment, Bernat approached Walter, carrying a tangle of what looked to be standard medical electrodes.

“This may be uncomfortable in places,” Bernat warned him, speaking for the first time. His accent seemed unusually heavy. “And you will need to disrobe.”

With a tight-lipped grimace, Walter removed his robe and allowed Bernat to help him remove the pajamas. He lay down again, naked, but relieved to find that the room was not too cold. Bernat began to apply the disc-shaped contacts at strategic places along Walter’s body. When he reached Walter’s inner thigh, Walter was definitely glad that the nurse was no longer present.

Heroic Measures (continued)

#

June 10, 1986 . . .

The four heroes were well outnumbered by their attackers. The assailants had clearly intended to ambush the men, planning on their numbers to overwhelm the four heroes. It was possible, Walter thought, that they had not known exactly how many heroes they might be face, only that there be many more of them.

They nearly succeeded in surprising the heroes by not gathering too noticeably together and staying to the shadows, but one of their number—it was no longer clear which one—had dropped prematurely from the overhead supports. Fallen seemed to be more accurate, for the man’s landing—at least Walter assumed that it had been a male, but the dark clothing and masks that shrouded their faces made it difficult to know for certain—appeared to have not been part of the plan. He had landed awkwardly, his legs sprawling out beneath. Walter thought he heard the sharp crack of bones breaking, but his attention shifted to far more immediate matters as the other members of the fallen figure’s group gathered and attacked.

Accustomed to fighting as a team, the four heroes formed a tight knot, their backs to each other. The dark-clad attackers moved in, sporting a variety of hand weapons. Most carried clubs or metal rods, but a few brandished firearms. Walter knew that those carrying guns would be frustrated, and so at disadvantage, being unable to fire for fear of hitting one of their number. The hesitation would not last, Walter knew, but it would aid him and his companions for the moment.

None of the heroes suffered any immediate injury. They were able, together and singly, to simply avoid or toss aside most of those who lunged at them. Increasingly, though, their attackers grew more organized and hostile. Walter saw a dark gash appear on Pulsar’s cheek when one of the thugs managed to connect with a narrow rod. Pulsar winced a moment later, but did not relent. The attackers continued to press at them, forcing them into a tighter and tighter knot. A few, feeling they were close enough not to miss, fired their weapons. Walter felt the impact as the bullets made contact with his body armor. He forced himself to ignore it, confident in the protection provided by Thomas Raynes’ new design.

Walter felt the sting as edge of a thin metallic whip snapped by his head. For an instant, he imagined how it might have felt had its owner managed to make contact. Enough, Walter decided. He had a dread-filled sense of what would happen if one of them did not take more immediate and drastic action. Better me, he thought, than . . .

“Get ready!” he shouted, trying to pitch his voice so that it would carry only to his companions. He did not know whether any of them had heard him. They were each intently engaged in their own defense, so could spare no effort to respond. Still, Walter knew that he could not wait much longer to act.

A moment free of being assailed presented itself and Walter wrapped his arms tight around his body. He activated a hidden control on his belt and waited. A moment later, he felt the telltale tingle of his skin. He flung his arms outward, releasing the electrical energy that flowed throughout his suit. Forced to build beyond the capacity of the suit’s circuitry to contain, it leapt outward, seeking a path through which to flow. It found many. Blue-white arcs crackled and flared, and the attackers around them went rigid. Some convulsed, and others fell immediately limp, as the energy released them.

Walter sagged slightly, breathing hard. He forced himself to remain standing even as his legs threatened to buckle beneath him. The effort from this mass method of defense, while usually very effective, drained him severely. He would recover in time, but it was not a condition that could be easily remedied by the consumption of food or aided by simple rest—although the latter did help somewhat.

He looked up weakly, nodding to let the others know that he was okay. A flicker of movement caught his attention and his eyes looked past the other three heroes. One of the larger thugs was still conscious and attempting to flee.

“Always at least one asshole with insulated boots,” Jade snarled.

“I’ve got him,” Iron-Clad growled. He took a large, bounding step in the direction of the fleeing attacker.

“No!” Walter called out weakly.

His shout came out hoarse and faint. He lifted a trembling arm, trying to direct a blast that might disable the escaping assailant; he knew he could do nothing to effect the massive hero’s charge. His remaining strength failed him as Iron-Clad closed in on his pursuit.

Sensing the hero’s pursuit, the darkly-dressed hoodlum turned and, to Walter’s surprise, decided to make a stand. He began firing his automatic weapon at the advancing metal-clad hero. Bullets rang with sharp metallic echoes as they ricocheted off of the hero’s metal armor. Iron-Clad raised his thick metallic staff, closing the last few feet of distance.

Walter cried out again, but it was choked off. He raised his arm again, but it was too late. Iron-Clad swung the staff with both hands. A deep roar sounded from the hulking hero. It was followed a moment later by the sickening sound of the shaft’s impact against the attacker’s head. The staff carried him along its arc before he finally flew onward, stopping when he crashed against the cinderblock wall.

The attacker’s body slid like a limp ragdoll to the concrete floor. He was almost certainly dead, Walter concluded, or had suffered a severe concussion and devastating damage to his jaw and cheekbones.

Iron-Clad did not give the fallen thug another glance. Instead, he just made his way easily back to the other heroes. The casual way in which he carried himself sickened Walter. Certainly, the man had attacked them, but he had trouble reconciling the amount of force that Iron-Clad had displayed with the minor threat that he had represented to the heroes.

Walter glanced toward Pulsar. The red-and-black-clad hero, while not meeting Walter’s eyes, stood tight-lipped as he watched the massive hero return. Jade’s expression was impassive, but his eyes were bright in a way that made Walter uneasy.

“That’s one less we’ll have to worry about,” Iron-Clad announced, grinning tightly.

Walter looked beyond the metal-clad hero. The body of the attacker remained still. If he was not already dead, Walter considered, he would be soon. A part of him almost wanted to put the man out of his misery, Even if he lived, he would be a long time recovering—if he ever did. Certainly, the man was a criminal, but there were rules of decency that should be followed.

“Is there a problem, Knight?”

Iron-Clad deep tone penetrated his reverie. His eyes turned to the towering hero. He characterized an imposing figure, but Walter found that he was not intimidated by him—he simply did not want to deal with him. He simply looked away and glanced around them at the collection of their still-senseless assailants.

Without another word, he turned and walked away. Let them clean it up.

#

Present day . . .

Walter watched as a hero dressed in a deep blue and red outfit shook hands with the governor. Both were shown in profile, the hero’s cape appearing to shift color as it flapped behind him in the wind. Both men turned to face the camera. The governor wore a wide politician’s smile; the hero’s face bore a lesser, more stoic one.

Good to see that they’re still appreciated, Walter thought, granting his silent approval. He did not know the name of the hero, but that did not really matter. As long as heroes were still receiving some recognition for their efforts, that was what was important. A moment later, though, Walter’s optimism was replaced by despair.

The camera zoomed in on the hero, shifting to become a still image backed with the patriotic color scheme of red, white, and blue. Words dissolved into the screen: I Support Joseph Pendleton for Governor. And then, in smaller, but still readable type beneath it: Endorsed by the Coalition of Justice. The image shifted to a photographic portrait of the governor.

Walter raised the remote control and angrily turned off the display. Its image quickly faded to a reassuring blank darkness. We never would have done this. Never. While they might have worked with those in positions of political power, even be honored by them, the heroes of his day never would have dared to engage in an activity that could potentially compromise their integrity as a symbol of impartial justice. Undeniably, some had failed to live up to the image, but the vast majority of them had managed to uphold it.

In the end, they remained human underneath the outfits, capes, and armor. This meant that they were vulnerable to the same weaknesses of spirit that the rest of humanity suffered. It was that sense of decency and honor that separated the heroes from those that society considered to be villains, although even Walter had to admit that the area that divided the two groups was often very gray indeed.

Heroic Measures (continued)

He forced himself up into a sitting position. A shower, at least, he decided. It was something that needed to be done.

While he waited for the water to warm up, he avoided the mirror. Although he felt no different physically, he was convinced that he could contend with what he might see there. He was tempted to simply shower in the dark, but recognized just how foolish a notion that was. His reflection, he knew, could not follow him into the shower.

He stood under the steaming water for a long time, long after the amount of time had passed that it might have taken to wash the confluence of shared body fluids from him. He studied the long rivulets of water ran down his body, watching as they flowed down the drain, hopefully taking all traces of his infidelity with him. It could not, however, wash away the turmoil that roiled within him.

A short time passed, and he started to feel more clammy than clean. He gave up and shut off the water flow. For a while he remained there, letting the water drip from his body until he began to fell chilled. He then reached for towel, dried himself, and began to dress. He knew that he would find a way to get through the day because he had to. Tomorrow, though, when he returned home, would be a different story.

#

June 10, 1986 . . .

Walter charged after the fleeing perpetrators. One of them decided to take a stand, stopping to turn and begin firing his automatic weapon in his direction. Walter felt the spray of bullets as they impacted his body armor, but was confident in the protection provided by Thomas Raynes’ new design.

Heroic Measures (continued)

He saw the bed, still neat and unmade, and felt a thick swell of nausea. It had little to do with the aftereffects of the two glasses of Scotch and everything to do with his growing sense of guilt. He managed to fit it back, opting to drop into the room's single chair rather seat himself on the bed. It looked exactly like the one in the room he had just left. Only by focusing on the subtle dissimilarities in the room's décor was he able to convince himself that he was now in a different place.

For a long time, he simply stared into the darkness of the room. He was tired, but he did not know whether he would be able to sleep—that he should be allowed to sleep. How would he tell Clara? Would he tell Clara? Would she just know as soon as she saw him? A part of him wanted cry, to release his fear and remorse in an eruption of tears and sorrow, but he could seem to find it within himself to do so.

He awoke to bright daylight. At some point, although he had memory of doing so, he had moved to the bed, covering himself with the topmost blanket. It took only a moment for his memories of the events of the night to return and he lay there, unwilling to move. Sharp pains drove at his stomach. While he was undoubtedly hungry, he deeply questioned his ability to eat. He glanced at the clock, calculating that he had missed the free continental breakfast offered in the small coffee shop off the main lobby.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Even if his mind had not been impaired by the Scotch, he did not think he could have arrived at a graceful way out of this situation. To simply turn around and leave seemed rude. Instead, their gazes remained locked together.

Although Walter had no specific recollection of how it happened, the next thing he knew he was laying on his back across the large bed. His shirt was unbuttoned and open, leaving his chest bare. He looked down to see the long dark hair of the young woman as she pulled his trousers, including his underwear, exposing him completely to her. She caressed him there and, despite himself, he shivered and felt his body respond to her touch.

Her head lifted, causing her hair to fall in a dark cascade along her face. Giving him a smile that spoke of hunger and desire, she began to slide her body upward along his until her face was above his own. She then lowered her lips to his. They were warm and soft and he found himself responding in kind. Their lips parted for only a moment before they met again in a longer, lingering kiss. Walter felt her tongue touch his, probing. Her breasts were soft and warm against him. Part of him wanted it to stop, to prevent the unpardonable situation from going any further, but he felt unable to resist, from moving away from beneath her to go . . . where?

Lifting herself from him, she ran her fingers longingly along his bare chest. She then descended upon, taking him inside her. Walter breathed an ecstatic moan. His head tilted back and his eyes closed as the intensity of the experience impacted him. She moved upon him, rocking him toward an orgasmic release.

He had but one thought as he climaxed within her: Clara.

#

August 14, 1994 . . .

Walter awoke sometime later in darkness. The clock by the bedside read: 2:18. He raised himself onto one arm, still feeling vaguely foggy. Had it been a dream? He reached out onto the bed to find that he was alone. Switching on the light, he then recognized immediately that it was not his room. She was gone. And he realized that he had not even known her name.

He dressed quickly, hoping that she had at least paid for the room. As he left it, he was relieved to find the hallway empty. Despite the hour, it was not unlikely that someone else might be returning from some late-night revelry. He made his way to the elevator and punched for the floor where his room was located.

For some reason, he hesitated when he reached his room. Finally, unable to the source of his unease, he inserted the key and opened the door. To his relief, the message light on the desk phone remained dark. He had feared that he might it flashing, meaning that Clara had called and, upon receiving no answer, had left a message for him. That she had not did little to ease his guilt, but it gave him more time to come to terms with it.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Still looking across at Walter, she seemed about speak, but then apparently changed her mind and slowly began to eat. Walter waited, watching her for a moment, and then picked up his own fork and started on his meal.

The dinner passed quietly, as many of their meals together often did. Walter made occasional low noises of approval as sampled each of the dishes that she had prepared. She was a marvelous cook, although he had not known it when he had proposed to her. While they were dating, she had seemed more than willing to have him take her for meals, but those occasions had become less frequent now that they were together and saving for the future.

Walter wiped at his lips with the napkin, trying to be cultured about it, but knowing that he failed miserably. The meal had been delicious, his stomach was full, and he was with the woman he loved. He placed the napkin deftly on the table.

“That was wonderful, sweetheart,” he said, smiling at her, while trying to suppress an unexpected burp. “It seemed even better than usual.” He paused, watching her expression. Making such inquisitive compliments always made him feel awkward, never being quite certain how they would be taken.

Clara seemed pleased that he had noticed and Walter relaxed. “I braised it a little differently,” she explained. “And tried a few different spices.”

Walter nodded approvingly; it truly had been delicious.

“I made dessert too,” she added and Walter almost sighed. He was almost full to bursting now, but he would not dare even consider hurting her feelings by not at least sampling some of whatever she had made.

“But while the coffee is still brewing,” she went on, “maybe I should take just a look at what kind of chocolate you brought me.”

Walter laughed softly and passed the box over to her. He had picked out the assortment himself, choosing ones that he knew were her favorites. It was slightly more expensive that way, but well worth hollow the extra cost to see her happy. Like most women he knew, she loved chocolate, but generally consumed it only on special occasions. He had seen her make an average -sized chocolate bunny last for nearly two weeks after receiving it on Easter.

She unwrapped the box and began to examine its contents. Walter had little doubt that she could tell which variety each piece simply by looking at it. After several moments of this study, she withdrew one, along with its paper wrapper, and placed it on her plate. She then lifted the chocolate to her lips and took a small, dainty bite, closing her eyes as she did so.

Walter smiled to himself as she relished the treat. He then remembered the additional gift still nestled in his coat pocket. While she finished the small piece of chocolate, he reached down into his jacket and withdrew the small box. When he was certain that she was ready, he held it out to her.

“Something else?” She grinned, almost giggling. There was something almost giddy in her demeanor and Walter wondered if the champagne might have gone to her head. “You spoil me.”

“Yes,” he agreed, and allowed her to take the box anyway.

This one, much smaller than the box that the chocolates had come in, she opened as well. She held her breath for a moment and then stared at Walter, her eyes shining. “It’s beautiful.”

He wanted to say something corny like, “Not as much as you,” but he tried to prevent himself from spouting such foolish clichés in her presence. Not that she minded, as far as he could tell, it was just that he felt that she deserved phrases that displayed a bit more originality. Most of time, though, this left him with little to say, usually a choice between silence and the occasional nod of agreement.

“Let me put it on you.”

“Okay,” Clara agreed, her smile widening. She put the small box down and lifted the hair from the nape of her neck.

Walter stood and came around the table. He lifted the box and withdrew the item it contained. It was a pendant with a heart carved from a single ruby with a small diamond mounted next to it. He had been saving since Christmas for it, putting what little money he could in order to afford it for today. Carefully, he placed the thin gold chain around her neck and closed the clasp. Clara released her hair and turned toward him.

The small jeweled heart hung to fall just above the narrow hollow between her breasts. It looked much as Walter had imagined it would, although he had pictured it in other ways as well. He hoped she still wear it later that night after they had gone to bed. Actually, he hoped that it would be all that she would be wearing.

Clara glanced down at the pendant and then back toward Walter, but not quite looking at him. She seemed thoughtful as her fingers came up to lightly touch it. Her eyes refocused and she turned toward the cabinet.

“I have something for you too,” she said.

She picked up a small white envelope and placed it on the table between them. Walter reached for it, but she placed her hand on his before he could take it.

“I’m pregnant.”

Walter stared at Clara dumbly, not at all sure that he had heard her words correctly. Blood then roared in his ears and it took him a long moment for the light-headed sensation to pass. Not trusting that he could yet find his voice, he took the envelope and opened it. It contained a laboratory report from doctor’s office, confirming what Clara had just told him: she was carrying their child.

“Are you happy?”

There was a faint quaver in her voice that told him that she was genuinely worried that he might not be.

“Yes,” he managed to croak out. And then, more strongly, “Yes!”

She smiled softly and visibly relaxed.

“How long?”

“A little over two months, they think.”

Walter nodded, forcing himself to do the mental calculations. The child would probably be born in August or September: a late summer or autumn baby. Walter found himself still struggling to accept the news. Certainly, they had discussed starting a family, but for some reason he had thought they would plan it out a bit more thoroughly. A lot of couples let it be known when they were “trying” (which, for some couples, Walter felt it was an unnecessary insight into the pair’s sex life). While he thought it unlikely that they would have publicly announced it, he would have thought that they would have discussed it with each other. Or had they? He could not recall a specific decision on the matter, only the occasional conversation on the topic. Apparently, Clara had taken one or more of these as tacit permission and . . . Well, he decided, it was done. There were certainly old enough. Suddenly, their house felt quite a bit smaller than it had when he had first arrived home---and that was months before the child even arrived.

That night, with Clara snuggled close and softly breathing in sleep beside him, Walter found that his own mind refused to succumb to slumber. Clara had, as he had hoped, come to bed wearing nothing but her new pendant. She had looked as warm and desirable as he had expected. Yet, as they made love, there was an additional tenderness in the way he had treated her that night. Within her she now carried their child—and that changed everything.

#

August 13, 1994 . . .

Walter sat alone at the small table in the hotel bar. As darkness descended outside, no one seemed inclined to turn up the lights, leaving the interior to fill with shadows. He had talked to Clara and the boys from his room, but being two time zones away, they were now preparing for bed. Walter found himself feeling restless, as he often did after a long flight. He knew that he if he went to bed now, even if he managed to fall asleep, he would wake up too early. It was far easier to occupy his time in the evening than it was during the too-early hours of the morning.

He sipped at his second double Scotch on the rocks of the night. It was a rare indulgence, but how far did he have to go? A few yards down the hallway to the elevator, four floors up, and then down another hallway to his room. Besides, it was not as though he had downed each one in a single swallow. In fact, he had lingered over this one for so long that he was starting to notice curious looks from the bartender.

The bar was nearly empty, which surprised him given its location and that it was a Friday night. It being Friday the Thirteenth must be keeping people away, he considered with wry amusement. That, or the newly-called baseball strike had given them less reason to populate the bars that evening.

In a corner booth, five business men in department store-quality suits broke into occasional shouts of laughter. At least two of them, Walter judged, would be wise to take a taxi home. Two tables over from them, another man sat alone, apparently waiting for someone to join him. His eyes alternated between his watch and the main entrance to the bar. Something in his mannerisms told Walter that he was anxious about something involving whoever he was meeting.

The only other patrons that Walter could see were a young couple seated at a table near one of the windows. They talked energetically, the young man making frequent gestures with his arms. The young woman watched him with an intensity that told Walter that she was clearly beguiled with her companion. He seemed not to notice. Too bad, Walter concluded with bemusement. You definitely could have gotten some tonight. He smiled to himself, remembering himself and Clara during the early days of their relationship. Had he looked at her like that? He decided that he probably had.

He sipped at his drink, and then rotated the glass slowly to swirl its contents before setting it back on the table. A flicker of dark motion caught his attention and he turned to look toward the entrance. His first reaction was one of caution and alarm, but that vanished quickly when he saw who it was.

She was of average height, probably about five-foot-eight, he guessed. Her black dress, plain except for some stitching near the neckline, fit her shape perfectly. It was not so tight as to leave nothing of her dimensions to the imagination, nor was it loose and shapeless. The skirt fell to just above her knees; there was just enough of a sleeve as to not leave her upper arms completely bare. Her hair was long and dark, hanging about halfway down to cover her shoulder blades. In the dim lighting, it appeared to be fine, but with a natural wave to it. She wore short heels. They provided just enough lift to accent her slim and graceful legs.

She paused in the doorway, searching the interior with an air of self-possessed confidence. Walter’s eyes turned toward the man sitting alone, assuming that she was his intended companion. Lucky man, he thought, and returned to his drink. It was not until several minutes later that he realized that she was still there, but now seated at the bar alone. The man who he had thought was to be her date was gone. Interesting.

He studied the woman again, trying to do so covertly, looking for any additional clues as to why she might be there. Was she meeting someone, someone who was now late or had been delayed? She did not seem to have the look of a professional escort, and carried herself too well to be a common prostitute. While she did look like the type that a lonely businessman might find himself attracted to, he just was not quite getting those kinds of vibes from her—not that he would know for certain, anyway.

Starting to feel the effects of the second drink, Walter decided to allow the mystery of the dark-haired woman to resolve itself without him. He drained the last of the Scotch and then withdrew two singles from his wallet, leaving on the table underneath the glass. Rising from the chair, he paused, confirming that it was definitely time to return to his room. He made his way past the bar, trying not to give the woman more than a momentary glance, while hoping that his gait did not betray his mildly inebriated state.

Once outside in the hallway, he stopped, trying to remember which way led to the elevators, and then continued on. He had traveled only a few feet when he heard a voice behind him.

“Excuse me.”

Walter slowed and turned, trying not to react with surprise when he saw the young woman in the black dress approach him. He waited while she closed the gap between them.

“Yes?”

She gave him a tentative, almost shy smile.

“I was wondering if maybe you’d be willing to take me to my room?” She glanced quickly along the hallway. “I don’t like being alone in here.”

Walter stared at her, trying to parse her words. He silently scolded himself for his initial interpretation of her request. She was obviously a young woman who just wanted someone to make sure that she made it back to her room safely. It was certainly a sensible enough request for an attractive woman to make at night in an unknown city.

Finally, Walter answered her with a smile. “It would be my pleasure.” He was reasonably certain that he had not slurred any of the words.

She looked visibly relieved and moved into position beside him as they continued toward the elevators.

The wait for the next elevator car was brief, saving Walter from having to potentially engage her in conversation. He held the door open for her and then followed her inside.

“Four, please,” she said, giving him darting smile.

There was a quality to her voice that Walter found intriguing. It held a nuance of training or culture that he could not quite identify. He pressed the button for her floor and stepped back as the doors closed.

Now that they were alone, he felt a sudden surge of something like vertigo. The air felt close and slightly warm and he wondered whether it was really a fault of the elevator’s air conditioning system, or his own reaction to being in a confined space with an attractive woman. Although they only ascended four floors, it felt as if they had traveled nearly forty. The elevator chimed, slowed, and the doors parted. Once again, he reached his hand out to hold them open for her. She stepped past him and then waited while he exited.

As the doors closed behind him, Walter felt a renewed swell of that sense of claustrophobia. He could not attribute it to the hotel’s low ceilings, as it had not bothered him earlier.

“My room’s just down here,” she said, waving at the row of doorways.

Walter nodded once, lacking anything meaningful to add. He followed her down the hallway, realizing that her feet made almost no sound at all on the thinly padded carpet. She stopped at one of the rooms and inserted her key. Walter noted that it was Room 417, although he was not certain why that really mattered. She opened the door onto darkness and stepped inside.

“Could you wait right here while I turn on the lights?”

Walter smiled politely. “Of course.”

She disappeared into the darkness. A moment later, the light from one of the bedside lamps cast a pale, yellow-white light into the room. She reappeared, looking much more reassured.

“Thank you,” she said. “I really appreciate it.”

“It was the least I could do,” Walter replied, not at all sure why he said it, although it was essentially true.

She smiled in a sweet, almost coy way. Walter realized then that she had removed her shoes while she had turned on the light. Her eyes no longer gazed directly at his chin.

“Would you be willing to wait just a minute longer while I . . .” she tilted her head toward the small bathroom. “Then you can go?”

Walter’s eyes glanced toward the darkened bathroom and then nodded. What was the harm? For someone so confidently dressed, she did seem to possess a number of neuroses.

He waited for her to finish and, feeling conspicuous standing alone out in the hallway, took a step inside. In doing so, he lost his grip on the door and it closed behind him. He heard water running in the bathroom and reached for handle, hoping that it looked like he had not yet closed the door.

She appeared into the doorway. Her eyes noted the now-closed door, but the only change in her expression was the slight hint of a smile.

“I really do want to thank you,” she said, moving forward to stand directly in front of him.

With her standing that close, Walter could smell her subtle fragrance, something he had caught only the barest hint of in the elevator and out in the hall. He was about to speak when she reached up and, with a single motion of her hand, caused her dress to drop. It fell in a mound of dark fabric at her feet. She stood before him now completely naked—Completely. Naked.

Walter was not so addled by the alcohol that he did not recognize the seduction for what it was. She looked up at him, studying his reaction. She evidently liked what she witnessed here, for she smiled with faint, but clear satisfaction.

Heroic Measures (continued)

He watched as she tried to comprehend, to come to terms with what he had shown her. He understood; it was more than a little unnerving to have one’s reality suddenly shifted beneath one’s feet.

“So it was you . . .” Her gaze grew distant as she replayed her memories of the night of the attack. “All along . . . it was you.”

Walter nodded again. “Yes.”

Clara’s eyes refocused on his. “I don’t know what to say.” Her eyes darted back to the mask, the gloves, and then back at him. “I really don’t.”

Walter’s thoughts filled with leading answers: That you still love me. That you’re amazed that a hero would take a personal interest in you. That you’ll . . .

“Tell me that it doesn’t matter.”

Her eyes widened almost incredulously. “But it does!” Her voice had regained some of its strength. “It changes . . . everything.”

Walter could not help it, but he felt his body sag slightly. So this is it.

Clara’s eyes fixed on his. “Why now? Why did you tell me now?”

“Because I had to,” he said, fighting to speak past the lump that had formed in his throat. “Because I love you.” It might be the last thing she wanted to hear right now, but it was the truth, and he had to say it.

She appeared to accept the statement with anger. Turning her head away from him, she stared into the contents of the box. Her face was a mask of confusion and torment. She looked back at him once more. Walter could see her struggle between fury and tears.

“I still don’t understand,” she said. “Why tell me now?”

Walter reached up and took her hands in his. She stared down at them for a moment and then back into his eyes.

“Because I want you to marry me.”

#

February 12, 1982 . . .

[insert more here]

“I’m going to ask her to marry me.”

Red whacked one of the thugs who had started to rise, but otherwise said nothing.

“You don’t think I should?” Walter was troubled by his companion’s lack of response. He glanced around: none of the other hoods seemed to be inclined to get back up and try again.

“I didn’t say anything,” Red responded casually, also looking around.

“I know,” Walter said. “Quite eloquently.”

He knelt and started fitting a pair of magnetic cuffs on the unconscious miscreant at his feet. He tossed a set to Red. Red checked them and then attached them to the dazed person lying down before him.

“It can make things complicated,” Red explained, holding out his hand for another set of restraints.

Walter frowned. He had thought of that before, which is why it had taken him so long to make his mind to propose to Clara. There was no doubt in his mind that he loved her deeply—and he was fairly certain that she felt the same way. But Red was right: relationships between heroes and civilians had a tendency to not work out. The ones between two heroes had a slightly better average for success, but not by much. Besides, there were no women among the ranks of the heroes for which he felt any attraction—at least none that were available. It was akin, Walter supposed, to be married to someone in law enforcement or a military officer on active duty. Actually, he mused, finding some small glint of humor in the matter, it was a lot like that.

He rose to his feet and looked around again. All of the fallen hoods seemed to be secure. A few moaned softly as they began to regain their senses. Walter nodded to Red to call it in to the police and the pair prepared to leave the scene.

“I’m not saying ‘No’”, Red said, returning to their conversation. “I’m just not saying ‘Yes’.”

“Then what are you saying?”

Red ducked into the car and pulled off his mask. “I’m saying,” he said, running a hand through his ruffled sweat-dampened hair, “is that it’s your choice.” He leaned back in the seat as Walter settled in and started the engine. “Just be aware.” Red closed his eyes, a slight smile forming on his lips. “But you’d damned well better ask me to be your best man.”

Walter grinned and put the car into gear.

#

February 14, 1984 . . .

Walter maneuvered his way through the evening traffic, praising himself once more for getting the chocolate, flowers, and jewelry the previous day. It had made him late getting back to the lab, but no one had seemed to notice. Director Chaung was away from his office when Walter had passed by it, so he had probably been safe from any kind of even informal reprimand.

Checking the clock dial on the dashboard, he calculated that he would be a few minutes late at most. Hopefully Clara was not preparing anything that was overly sensitive to its cooking time. If everyone would just keep moving, he swore silently.

On the radio, the international news services were reporting that someone named Chernenko was now in charge of the Soviet Union. Hadn’t they just had a new leader? Walter wondered. This was followed by series of continuing reports of the successful landing of the space shuttle Challenger, along with interviews with several of the astronauts. Walter had to smile; it seemed that the Space Age had finally been renewed in earnest. There followed a series of results from the Winter Olympics taking place in Sarajevo. Walter listened, trying to remember if he participated in any of the office pools for those events.

He pulled into the short, narrow driveway only one minute later than he had expected. Gathering, the gifts from the trunk, and slammed it closed, narrowly missing his coat, and headed inside.

Clara did not meet him at the door, but that was particularly surprising. If she had something on the stove, she preferred to keep an eye on it rather than leave the kitchen. She still never let Walter forget the morning that he had volunteered to cook omelets for them and then had stepped away “for just a quick second” to check something he had heard outside.

She did greet him at the doorway to the kitchen, her hands still in oven mitts and covered with a paisley apron that did little to hide her luscious figure. They exchanged light kisses on the cheek and she smiled at seeing his hands filled.

“You remembered.”

Walter flashed her a sardonic smile.

“Dinner’ll be on table in about two minutes,” she told him. “There’s already an empty vase there.”

Well, that was subtle, he thought, once again grateful that he had not forgotten the flowers. He tried not to imagine what the meal would have been like with an empty vase as their centerpiece.

He walked into the small dining room, finding the table set with their wedding china, crystal wine glasses, and two tapered candles that provided most of the room’s illumination. Placing the box of chocolate down on the table, and moving the jewelry box to his coat pocket, he worked at placing the flowers into the waiting vase. He recognized it, too, as one of the many gifts from their wedding.

Managing to complete the task without making too much of a mess, or not down any of the glassware, he was considering where to properly place the box of chocolates when he heard soft footsteps behind him. He wondered if she had been there watching him fumble with the flowers, but decided that he did not really want to know. She held a steaming serving dish in her hands, waiting pointedly for him to get out of her way so that she could place it on the table. Walker stepped aside quickly.

Clara placed the platter in the middle of the table. Walter sniffed appreciatively. Lamb roast. It was one of her specialties, but one she tended to save for special occasions because of the amount of preparation she put into it.

“Why don’t you pour the wine while I get the rest?” she suggested, nodding toward the table. “I’ll be right back.”

Walter watched her go, taking a moment to admire the way she walked. Some women just don’t need heels, he mused. And I’m lucky enough to have one of them. He turned back toward the table, looking for the aforementioned wine. It took him a moment to locate it, for it turned out to be a bottle of champagne. It was just a small one, but from a real French vineyard he noticed. Walter smiled; she also was treating their second Valentine’s Day as a married couple as a special occasion.

After removing the thin foil, unwinding the wire catch, he then tried to cautiously remove the cork. He discovered that he was holding his breath when he heard the muffled pop from beneath the cloth napkin he had borrowed from the stack on the table. After a tense moment, he breathed with relief when the bottle’s contents did not come bubbling out onto the floor. He was carefully pouring it into the glasses when Clara returned.

Carrying three smaller plates on a tray, she arranged each of these on the table before placing the tray aside on top of a nearby cabinet. She removed her apron, folded it, and then placed in on top of the now-empty tray. Looking over the contents of the table, she smiled and went over to her chair. She paused and Walter nearly dashed over to pull it out for her before she could stare at him pointedly for his lapse in etiquette. Normally, she was not that much of an adherent to the standards of Emily Post, but on occasions like this, she wanted to be treated as special as it was.

Clara seated herself, holding her hands demurely in her lap as Walter slid the chair closer to the table. Apparently satisfied, she moved her hands into view and waited for Walter to take his seat. Once he was seated, she passed her plate to him and waited for him to fill it. She watched him, giving him small, non-verbal cues as to the portions she wanted of each item and then sat patiently while he served himself. After the serving ritual was completed, Walter settled back in his chair and draped his napkin across his lap. He lifted his champagne glass and then looked across the table at Clara.

The candlelight danced across her features, making her eyes sparkle like polished emeralds. Her hair glistened with golden highlights. She looked radiant, warm and desirable. I’m a very lucky man, Walter thought. For a moment, he considered voicing that as part of the toast, but felt foolish—and more than a little selfish—voicing such a thought aloud.

“To us,” he said, wishing he had more to add, but deciding to keep it short rather than to ramble on, sounding inane and insincere.

Clara smiled back at him, raising her own glass to lightly touch against his. “To us.” She took a small sip from it and then replaced the glass on the table.

Heroic Measures (continued)

There was a long moment of tense silence.

“We could end this quickly,” Harrison asserted, his teeth were clenched as he spoke. “Before there are any more civilian casualties.”

Uriana’s dark eyes shone with anger.

“There’s no irrefutable proof that there were,” Westin stated evenly, inserting himself back into the argument.

“There’s no proof there wasn’t!” Harrison countered, slamming his palm against the table. “The General says . . .”

“The General is an ass.”

Everyone fell silent. All eyes turned toward Red. His expression was almost unreadable behind his mask, but, standing next to him, Walter could see the muscles of Red’s jaw slowly tighten.

After the surprise faded from her expression, a faint smirk formed on Uriana’s lips. “He wants a victory—needs a victory—in order to keep from looking like an incompetent fool.” A sneer replaced her earlier smirk. “Elections are right around the corner,” she concluded. “And he wants to keep his job.” She looked almost smug.

Harrison’s eyes smoldered. But he could give voice to his thoughts, though, Red spoke up once more.

“Close,” he said calmly. “But not quite.”

It was Uriana’s turn to fix a fiery gaze on Red.

“Powell’s not that kind of fool,” Red explained. Although there was emphasis in his words, it sounded more like he was delivering an energetic college lecture than a potentially inflammatory polemic. What was it he did again? Walter asked himself. “And, to be fair,” Red went on, “he knows what kind of men are in line to replace him.”

“What does this have to do with anything?” Westin hissed.

“Perhaps nothing,” Red responded enigmatically. “Maybe everything.”

Walter felt his forehead wrinkle in confusion. Why was Red speaking in riddles? He was certain that the red-haired was not drunk. There was no detectable slurring of his words or other obvious signs of inebriation. While Walter knew that Red might bait any of them just for the thrill (and potential entertainment value) of the ensuing argument, this seemed a strange occasion for such behavior.

“We can’t let this turn into another ‘Nam,” Harrison persisted.

“No,” Red agreed. “We cannot.”

This admission seemed to calm Harrison down somewhat.

“None of their heroes have been involved,” Westin asserted.

“That we know of,” Harrison countered, sneering.

“And when the President asks . . . ?” Walter ventured, speaking out for the first time.

“He won’t.” Westin stated firmly.

“He already has,” Harrison said. There was no disguising the smug satisfaction in his voice. “Covertly.”

“Then I’m wrong,” Red admitted calmly, without any hint of defeat. “The General isn’t an ass—the President is.” He paused only a moment for effect. “But then we knew that.”

This earned him a renewed glare from Harrison; Red ignored it. There were faint smiles from some of those gathered around the table.

“It is essential that we should act in some way,” Sen announced softly. There was something in the quiet pitch of his voice that focused attention on him when he spoke.

Harrison straightened, almost arrogantly proud, buoyed by the hint of renewed support.

“But perhaps not in the way that Mr. Harrison suggests,” Sen went on, giving no sign that he had observed Harrison’s reaction. He now had everyone in the room’s attention.

“We’re listening, Sen,” Uriana said, clearly annoyed by the man’s unnecessary dramatic pauses.

“When we first gathered as a group, we did so for reasons of safety, security, to prevent the abuses of power, to be together so we would not have to stand alone,” his eyes flickered across those at table, “as so many of us have done.”

Several people nodded slowly in agreement; a few shifted uncomfortably at revisited memories.

“In the end, though, Sen went on, his voice never rising much above a whisper, “we must each answer to our own conscience.”

There was more shuffling as those present considered his words. Walter understood. It was easy enough to follow a group—any group—and then take solace in believing that it, as a whole, made a wrong decision. It was quite another thing to stand up on one’s own and claim the same responsibility. Was that what Harrison was trying do? It seemed more to Walter that he wanted the others on his side—by his side—to face the consequences of this decision.

“There will be times when we will not agree on a course of action as a group,” Sen continued. “Some of us will be forced by our own beliefs to act alone.” He paused, but met no one’s eyes. “I believe this is one of those times.”

“Are you saying that we should let Harrison here run off by himself and play soldier-boy?” Uriana demanded peevishly.

“That’s unacceptable,” Westin snapped tightly.

“I am saying,” Sen responded with habitual calmness, “that we must allow Mr. Harrison follow the dictates of his conscience. As I must follow mine.”

A long silence followed Sen’s statement, broken only by the faint sounds of people shifting positions as they exchanged momentary glances with others around the room.

“Well I’m not going,” Uriana finally announced. Much of the earlier vehemence was now gone from her words.

“Me either,” Westin affirmed. He stared at Harrison with narrowed eyes.

“Fine,” Harrison relented through clenched teeth. “Who is with me?”

Glances passed among those gathered at the table; few were willing to meet Harrison’s gaze. No one spoke, letting their silence answer for them. Even Sen gave no indication of that he would follow.

Harrison responded with a heavy snort of disgust and stormed from the room. Although Sen watched calmly as Harrison left, he did not follow him.

Another wave of fleeting looks went around the table.

“He’s going to get himself killed,” Uriana said with a faint snarl. Yet her voice betrayed a barely concealed undertone of concern.

“Better him than all of us,” Westin agreed.

Walter turned toward Red. What he saw in the red-clad man’s expression reflected his own uncertainty. The issue had not ended here. In fact, it might just be the beginning.

#

April 8, 1982 . . .

Walter could not remember the last time he had been this nervous. He had little trouble recalling other events that provoked similar anxiety—even ones when his life or the lives of others had been threatened. All those seemed to pale in comparison to what he planned to do today.

He checked his appearance in the mirror for probably the fiftieth time that afternoon. His reflection revealed no flaws—at least none that were not normally there—but that knowledge refused to relax him. Clara would arrive at any moment and then . . . and then . . .

He found that his palms were once again damp with nervous perspiration. He reflexively started to wipe them on his pants, but stopped himself. That wouldn’t do. Retrieving a small towel from hall closet, he more properly dried them with that. He placed it nearby, though, knowing full well that he would continue to need it.

Everything else was ready. Was it? he wondered. He had just begun running once more through his mental checklist when there was a quiet knock on the door. Walter froze, and then fought to swallow past his sudden paralysis. It lasted only a moment, though, and he was able to convince his legs to carry him to the door and his hands to open it.

Clara stood there, her face haloed by the muted illumination of the porch light. She looked beautiful. Her hair looked like soft golden waves; her eyes sparkled like emeralds. Walter realized that he was staring. Clara smiled, appearing to suppress a quiet laugh, although clearly relishing his focused attention.

“Can I come in?” she asked softly.

Walter managed to smile and then nodded his assent when he realized that he was once against staring mutely. He moved aside, allowing her to enter the small house.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” she said as Walter closed the door behind her. “Dr. Cavender needed some test results faxed before the office closed.”

“That’s okay,” Walter said, nodding.

Although he had been watching the clock almost steadily for the past two hours, he had not expected her to arrive precisely on time. Her supervisor, the medical center’s office manager, was known for not closing the office until at least five-thirty each evening. Still, he had not dared to count on her being late.

She followed him out of the foyer and down the short hallway to the kitchen. Pausing in open doorway, she closed her eyes, sniffed lightly, and smiled. Walter echoed her smile, relieved that she seemed pleased by his menu choice for the evening. He offered her glass of wine. She motioned her acceptance, waiting while he poured it into a goblet for her. He had briefly considered champagne, but had settled on a decent vintage of chardonnay instead. As he passed it to her, he noted in the refracted light through the glass that the wine was almost the same color as her hair.

Clara sipped at the wine, nodding slowly to indicate her approval of it.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” Walter said.

[insert more here]

The meal was filled with bits of idle conversation, most of which Walter could not remember from one minute to the next minute.

“Walter?”

It took a moment for his mind to recognize the word. He then realized that Clara was addressing him directly.

“Walter?”

He looked across at her, his eyes focusing on her face. It looked lovely in the subdued lighting of the dining area. “Yeah?”

“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said in the past ten minutes, have you?”

Walter searched his memory. He could make a light-hearted attempt to claim that it was a lingering effect of the lightning strike, but he sincerely doubted that she would appreciate such an evasion at that moment.

“Some about cats?”

“CAT scans,” Clara said. Walter saw her lips tighten, betraying her annoyance. “They’re talking about getting a CAT scan machine.”

Walter nodded, the conversation filling back into his memory. He made a mental note to stay out of the back office in the future.

“Okay,” Clara said, setting her fork down on the edge of her plate. “You’ve clearly got something on your mind.” She leaned forward, steepling her arms on the table and resting her chin on their top. “What’s wrong?”

Walter took a slow breath. She now seemed more concerned than angry. He wanted to meet her eyes, but could not yet bring himself to do so. He had rehearsed this speech many times over the past few weeks—several versions of it, in fact—but none of them seemed to quite fit the moment.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” he said, watching her expression became stone. He could imagine the thoughts that now raced through her mind: He wants to break up. He’s found someone else. He’s married. He doesn’t really love me. He’s an escaped felon. In some ways, he wondered if any, at not all of them, might be easier to accept than the truth.

He finally looked at her, seeing her watch him, still waiting for whatever pronouncement he intended to make. He thought he glimpsed a flash of fear in her eyes. He wished he knew that what he was going to tell her would make it go away.

“I’m not who you think I am,” he said.

Clara gave a short, sharp intake of breath. Her lips closed together, the lower one protruding slightly.

“I mean I am,” he went on. “But I’m not.”

Her eyes shifted, beginning to brighten. She was now moving toward anger. Walter can understand. The explanation so far sounded lame even in his own ears.

“It might be easier if I show you,” he said, rising from the chair. He headed for closet in the bedroom and pulled out the medium-sized box he kept hidden there.

He gave Clara an opportunity to take another sip of wine and gather herself before returning to the table. Placing the box at her feet, Walter felt her eyes fixed on him, and then the unmarked box the entire time. He lifted the lid and looked up at her.

Clara stared uncomprehendingly at the container. Her eyes moved to Walter’s face and then back down to the contents of the box. Reaching inside, Walter lifted an item from it and held it up for her. Clara studied it for a long moment in confusion and then recognition dawned for her.

“Where did you get that?” she asked. Her voice carried an air of amazed awe.

“It’s mine.”

Clara’s eyes widened and then narrowed in disbelief.

Continuing to hold the mask aloft, Walter shifted the contents of the box to expose the gloves. He looked back up at Clara. Her eyes were large as she fought to accept what she had been shown.

“Yours?” The word came out as an forced whisper of breath.

Walter nodded, his eyes never leaving her face.

Heroic Measures (continued)

#

September 2, 1977 . . .

“They said you . . . died.” Abigail seemed to choke out the last word. “And then the machine exploded.”

Walter’s brow wrinkled. Although he had been recovering for four days, he still had trouble speaking. His puzzlement, though, was clear to Abigail.

“The machine,” she repeated, holding her closed fists up vertically in parallel and then pushing them forward slightly.

Walter nodded his understanding. She was talking about the defibrillator paddles. They exploded?

Abigail sighed and then reached down to take his hand. The nerves along his skin still felt raw and exposed, but a touch against his bare flesh had finally stopped being intensely painful after only a few moments of contact.

They told him that he had been stuck with lightning. Based on what Abigail has reported, it had been a direct hit, striking him squarely as he stood there in the middle of the field. More than one person had informed him that he was more than lucky to still be alive. Although, based on what Abigail was telling him, that also had been a near thing. The word “blessed” had been used more than once.

The first day remained a blur of chaotic sensory impressions. When he had awakened the second day, he had been able to make out faces, and recognize sounds, although both remained a bit indistinct. The most embarrassing thing he recalled from that day was the lack of control he had possessed over his bowels; he was grateful that period had been short-lived.

Over the next few days, he had regained more command over his larger muscles, what he had heard one of the specialists refer to as “gross motor control”. He suspected that man’s true specialty was brain injuries or some other kind of neuroscience. Walter doubted that enough people got struck by lightning in an average year to warrant its own medical field.

Throughout it all, Walter grew mildly disenchanted, and even somewhat irritated, by the quality of care he received. Sure, nearly all of the nurses and most of the doctors were pleasant enough, even if some of them seemed determined to treat him more as an interesting laboratory specimen than as a human being. What annoyed him most was that their equipment seemed to be constantly breaking down. The only items that seemed to operate consistently were the glass thermometers—which he had hated the first two days—and blood pressure cuffs. The needles on the syringes had seemed to work just fine too. Just about everything else, such as the seemingly endless stream of EEG and EKG machines that they had tried to use to test and monitor him, appeared to fail within a few hours. Walter wanted to believe that it was because they were sensitive and delicate instruments, but he was beginning to think otherwise.

Now, though, he could sit up now without assistance and even walk a few steps, although it humiliated him to stumble along on his long legs like an infant. Having to use a walker for support did not serve to improve his disposition either, making him feel like he belonged in a senior citizen nursing home. He made a strong point of not working his way through his physical therapy exercises when Abigail might be present.

She had come to visit him everyday since he had arrived. It was a Friday and classes would be starting after the long Labor Day weekend. Although none of the doctors would give him a definitive answer, Walter was fairly certain that he would be spending the entire time here at the hospital and, more than likely, miss several of the first days of school.

The two sat in companionable, if somewhat slightly awkward, silence. His parents had been insightful enough to decide that they needed some coffee from the hospital cafeteria, leaving Abigail and him alone. Walter could see that there was clearly something on Abigail’s mind, but without a voice it was difficult for him to prompt her to speak. It worried him a little. Was she planning to break up with him, but felt guilty about it because he was in the hospital? It seemed both absurd and sudden, given what he recalled of their last several minutes together before he had gone in pursuit of her sweater. Still . . .

She cleared her throat delicately, gathering her courage. “Walter,” she began. Her voice was soft and quiet. Her throat moved as she swallowed shallowly. “About what happened . . .” she hesitated. “What we were doing . . .” Her cheeks started to grow pink.

Walter stared at her, waiting for her to finish. What was she going to say? That she regretted it? Wanted to forget it ever happened?

Walter replayed the memory in his mind, as he had many times before, particularly when alone at night. He found it troublesome that his body—well, certain parts of it—had not yet seemed to fully recover. So far, he had not yet summoned up the courage to ask one of the doctors about it, and certainly would not while a nurse or physical therapist was around. That he failed to respond to the presence of the latter was further evidence of his concern, for she was a young, very fit, example of female beauty. Not that he could ever admit that to Abigail, of course.

Abigail finally sighed and gave up on her explanation. She patted Walter’s hand and then squeezed it gently. “When you’re better . . .” Tears welled up at the corners of her eyes. She dabbed at them and rose from the chair. “Excuse me,” she said quietly, and disappeared into the private bathroom, closing the door behind her.

Although he could not be certain, Walter thought he heard her sobbing.

His parents returned a few minutes later. They both seemed surprised to find Abigail gone. His mother, though, must have heard Abigail through the closed door. She tapped on it lightly, softly calling out Abigail’s name. She nodded at Abigail’s muffled reply and then came back to Walter’s side. Walter expected his mother to make some remark like, “She’s such a sweet girl”, but she remained silent.

A small knot formed in his stomach as he considered that his parents might have overheard his and Abigail’s brief, if somewhat incomplete and incoherent, conversation. Parents, he knew, were very good to jumping to conclusions—occasionally even the right ones.

Abigail exited the bathroom a few moments later, still sniffling and her eyes reddened and puffy. She paused, studying Walter’s parents for a moment, and then walked over to him. She took his hand, squeezed it gently, and then bent down kissed him softly on the forehead.

“I’ll come see you tomorrow,” she whispered. She then turned and left without another word.

Walter was surprised at just how elated he felt that she would be returning. His earlier worries fled and he silently scolded himself for even having those thoughts.

“It is getting late,” his mother said, patting his hand. “The doctors say you need your rest.”

“We’ll be by to see you tomorrow, son,” his father added, giving Walter’s hand a quick squeeze. His expression betrayed nothing, as it had not since Walter had first been able to see it again. “’night, son.”

“Good night, Walter,” his mother echoed, and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

They both left, his mother taking one last look behind her before allowing his father to guide her out the door.

Walter stared at the closed door for several moments. He found that was not all that tired. In his opinion, he had stored up enough rest and sleep in the past few days to last him for several months. He considered asking for the television to be turned on, but that would require calling for the nurse, who might then decide that it was time for one or more additional physical checks. As far as Walter was concerned, he had already been poked and prodded enough to last him for a lifetime. He would have even settled for a book, but no one had thought to bring him any and he was dubious about what selection the hospital in any collection that they might have.

Lacking any other options, he relaxed and allowed his mind to drift. He was tempted to once again replay the events of his and Abigail’s interrupted outing. But, not knowing how much longer he might have to remain there recovering in the hospital, he did not want his memories of it to become too familiar just yet. That left him with the other parts of his life, which, in his opinion, was generally pretty boring.

Experimentally, he wiggled and then flexed his fingers, raising them up toward his face. The sensations that came from them still alternated between a distant tingling and dull numbness. It was almost as though they were attached to someone else’s body. They appeared to work properly; he just couldn’t feel them. If he were not watching them, he would not have believed that they could move. He felt suddenly foolish, staring at his own fingers as if they were strange alien appendages. For a moment, he considered repeating the same routine with his toes, but then remembered that they were covered with socks, and under the blanket.

That left Walter with nothing other than his own thoughts with which to entertain himself. Back where I started, he mused glumly. No books, no TV, not even a deck of cards . . . although he was uncertain whether he could actually handle the last item.

At some point while he continued to pursue random thoughts, Walter drifted off to sleep.

#

February 13, 1991 . . .

“We cannot—must not—interfere.”

Walter watched as the man dressed in black and emerald green clenched his fist and struck the worn surface of the polished conference table.

“I disagree,” Sen replied softly. The Asian man’s features remained serene, revealing nothing of whatever emotions roiled underneath.

“We are either guardians of the entire world, or we are not,” Westin insisted. “You cannot have it both ways.”

“We have a duty to our country!” Harrison shouted.

“Unless we all joined the military when I wasn’t looking,” Uriana retorted. “Or signed some kind of loyalty oath I missed, then we don’t.”

Walter waited for the next outburst. Harrison and Uriana rarely—very­ rarely—agreed on anything. Oil and water did not even begin to describe their relationship: an open flame and gasoline might come closer. Like many others in the group, Walter found Uriana to be profoundly passionate about the causes she championed, but also needlessly dramatic. This tended to turn people off, causing them to sometimes ignore what were otherwise reasonable proposals. Walter recalled a recent conversation with Red on the matter.

“She’s clearly butch,” Red said. He stated it as a simple fact, without any hint of judgment or rancor. “The real problem is that he wants to screw her himself. He sees her preference for women to be a complete and utter waste of female potential.”

The latter declaration was a revelation for Walter; the first part was hardly a secret. He had always considered Harrison to be something of a patriotic bigot, as much a product of his Southern upbringing as his own unwillingness to give credence to any notions that did not fit within his rather limited worldview.

Walter had a momentary flash of the athletic heroine engaged in bed with another woman. He shoved it away quickly, mentally reprimanding himself. What was it, though, about that?

“But more than that,” Red went on, somewhat to Walter’s surprise. “I think what he really wants is to be dominated by her,” he concluded. “Although he would never admit it—especially not even to himself.”

Looking at Harrison now, Walter had trouble believing Red’s hypothesis. Still, he supposed, it was possible . . .

Heroic Measures (continued)

Blood roared in Walter’s ears. He could hear the sound of his own breathing and tried to slow it. To him, it sounded like he was panting from fear. Yes, he was more than a little nervous, but he made no move to resist what Abigail was doing. In fact, he had already aided her efforts.

What breath he had caught as her fingers probed and tentatively stroked beneath the fabric of his jeans. For an instant, he feared that he might end the moment right then and there. He was saved from such a fate of unspeakable embarrassment when she removed her hand. What she had planned to do with it next he never knew, for they were interrupted by an echoing crash of thunder, followed by a sharp gust of wind.

Those events, of themselves, would have been only a mild distraction had Abigail’s sweater not been carried away. Walter saw it take leave her side on the blanket. Abigail had apparently not seen it take flight, but something in Walter’s expression or eyes told her that something had happened worth noting. She turned and looked, and then stared at the place where it had been snagged on the tall, dry grass, stopping to flap limply in the heavy breeze.

Walter’s eyes turned toward the fluttering garment and then to Abigail. He thought for a moment that she might wish to just let it go, but he knew that the spell of the moment had been broken. Stumbling to his feet, he refastened his jeans and belt, while accelerating into a full run after the wayward sweater.

He was less than a yard from it when it freed itself and glided away on the next burst of wind. Growling quietly with frustration, he forced his legs into an even faster sprint. His fingers barely brushed the fabric before it was carried off again. The grass was shorter here, but more dense, making it more difficult for him to move as quickly. He nearly stumbled several times as his sneakers encountered tangled knots of exposed roots. A part of him wondered if Abigail was finding his continually thwarted efforts to retrieve her errant piece of clothing to be entertaining. He was not amused.

While he believed that there was a God, Walter did not believe that he was deserving of so capricious and petty a reprisal. After all, they had not actually done anything. And, it had been Abigail’s idea. Well, Walter deduced wryly, it was her sweater. So maybe there was something to that.

The garment quivered on the thin branches of a barren shrub, seeming to taunt him for another dash at it. All evidence so far to the contrary, he knew that he should be able to catch up with and capture the sweater. However, the dubious gratification in chasing it down had now worn quite thin. Before charging off after it again, he quickly considered the situation and his efforts to resolve it so far. He fully expected his next attempt to be as successful as had all of his previous ones: the sweater would be snatched out of his reach just as he neared it. It was time for a different strategy.

Taking a deep breath, Walter dashed forward again. This time, he deliberately shot past the recalcitrant article of clothing. He slowed, forming a wide arc, and headed back toward where the sweater still waited. There was another gust of wind, but this time his fist closed on the knitted material before it could be carried away. Gripping it tightly, he held it aloft in triumph. He saw Abigail still standing on the blanket, but he was now too far away to see her expression. If she called to him, her voice was lost in the increasing roar of the wind. Surprised at how far he had come, having been so focused on his pursuit, he started to walk back to her. Thunder boomed overhead, and then seemed to roll across the sky and open field. An instant later, the dark and heavy clouds above him released their contents.

He was soaked within seconds. For a moment, he considered using the sweater to shelter his head from the rain. Instead, he tucked it tightly under his arm, hoping to keep it as dry as possible. He moved through the now-sodden grass, the path now even more difficult than before. This time, he saw the bright flash of lightning a few seconds before hearing the bass roar of the accompanying thunder. Out of habit, he silently counted the delay. Four seconds: it was nearby.

A few moments later came a fainter, more distant echo. He had not seen the flash, so he assumed that it had come from behind him. Ahead, he saw Abigail standing beneath the high canopy of the tree. For the moment, she appeared to remain dry, except for whatever moisture the wind blew in her direction. She seemed to be smiling and, he was pleased to note, not laughing.

Intense radiance seemed to suddenly form all around him. A part of his mind imagined it as the light that filled the gateway to Heaven. He wanted to flinch, to clench his eyes closed against the glare, but they refused to respond. A moment later, he felt a searing heat, followed by a convulsive searing surge of pain. The moment after that, that light was replaced by darkness.

#

August 30, 1977 . . .

Walter awoke to a jumble of light. It was as if he peered through twin kaleidoscopes, for the patterns that refracted his vision in each appeared to be similar and yet different. He swallowed, but his throat felt dry and raw. His mind felt jumbled, unable to hold onto a single thought for more than the briefest fraction of a moment. His body tingled, ached, and itched, although not necessarily in that order nor even in the same way all over. He tried again to speak, felt the small muscles of his jaw move, but they refused to form words. His tongue felt rough and swollen, or was it numb, as he retrieved the flash of a memory from childhood visits to the dentist.

The colors before his eyes slowed their fragmented motion. They did not yet solidify into recognizable shapes, but they formed more distinct geometries. Noises now came to him. They seemed to be either rustling whispers or something like the hushed hiss of escaping air. Am I leaking? came the reasonable, if somewhat absurd, thought. All of the impressions felt strangely distant, as if he was experiencing them from afar, through some kind of filter between himself and his senses.

He tried to move his head, but all that managed to accomplish was to renew the kaleidoscopic vertigo. Swallowing again came a bit easier, but he felt terribly thirsty. Thirsty? But there was water, water, everywhere . . . He paused in that thought. It was raining, wasn’t it? He paused again. He did not feel wet. In fact, he did not feel much of anything. No, that was not true either. He gave an annoyed mental sigh. He was not sure what he felt.

The prisms of color in his vision softened into vague patches of increasingly subtle color. On the surface of his left arm, he felt something that was definitely a touch. New sounds coalesced from near his right ear, trying to form comprehensible patterns. What had happened? The thing he could remember was that he had been chasing . . . a flag?

The vague shapes before him seemed to begin to move more swiftly, although he still could not identify them. He felt additional points of contact on his skin; each like being stroked with different grades of sand paper. New sounds also came into being, but they all still defied recognition. Voices? That would make sense, as they seemed to vary in pitch. He wished that he could understand them. Maybe one of them could explain what was happening to him.

A bright pinpoint of light suddenly appeared in his field of vision. He wanted to turn away, shield himself from it, driven by the reflexive memory of the last bright light he had experienced. That had been . . . what? When?

The diffuse dot of light moved in what seemed a random path. After spending some amount of time following this phantom trail through his vision, it left it entirely. The vague shapes returned and then were replaced by a large, darker object. It remained there was several moments before it too disappeared.

Something buzzed dully near his ear. There was a brief silence and then it returned again. The third time it came, he thought he could understand it.

“Walter?”

It was his name, if that was what the sound truly was, but it sounded like it being pronounced by a swarm of bumblebees at the bottom of a shallow dry well.

If it was his name, the polite thing to do would be to answer it. He tried to swallow again. He felt the jaw muscles move, even his lips as well, but if he made a sound, he could not hear it.

There was a renewed collection of noises now, all of which teased at his comprehension. He wanted to tell them to be quiet, to come one at a time, but could not perform beyond the thought. His mind felt somewhat clearer, but still disorganized. It felt akin to great fatigue or intoxication, yet unlike them both. He had never tried drugs, aside from being in the occasional proximity of a lit joint at a local concert, so he was uncertain whether it might be that. Whatever it was, he wanted it to either go away or let him rest. He had a feeling, though, that he had already had enough sleep.

“Walter?”

Yes, it was definitely his name. It sounded more recognizable than before, but still heavy with what seemed like static. He tried to speak again, but only managed an infinitesimal grunt that died before it left his throat.

“Walter,” the voice returned. “Move your hand if you can hear me.”

My hand. Yeah, Walter thought with increasing optimism. I can do that.

He focused on finding his hand, remembering which muscles moved it. A distant part of him reasoned that he should be a great deal more disturbed that he had to invest so much thought into such a simple action, but he felt generally detached from his emotions for the moment. He was driven by the need just to understand. He mentally traced down to the muscles of his right hand and focused on flexing them; the smallest movement—any movement—would be enough.

After what seemed like several minutes of effort, Walter gave up. If he had been successful in getting his hand to make any motion at all, he had been unable to feel it. The voice that he had heard provided him with no indication of the result either.

Well? he inquired silently. What’s next?

Heroic Measures (continued)

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” Walter replied. “She was right here . . .” He looked around again, hoping to catch a glimpse of the striking raven-haired beauty.

“I must have missed her,” his new companion said. “What was she wearing?”

Still peering through the crowd, Walter moved both of his hands vaguely down the front of his chest to form a “V” at about the halfway point.

The red-haired young man chuckled. “There’s lot of those here,” his hands shaped a poor imitation of Walter’s gesture. “That’s not much help. How was she dressed?”

“Pirate wench,” Walter answered, his attention far more focused on scanning the crowd. “I think.”

“Ah,” the young man nodded, giving a somewhat exaggerated lascivious smile. “Hoping to have her walk yer plank, were ya?” The young man’s accent was terrible.

Walter stared at him uncomprehendingly for a moment and let out a burst of laughter. “I actually hadn’t gotten that far in my thinking.”

“Sure you were,” the red-haired young man said. “You just didn’t know it yet.” He winked at Walter and then to look over the crowd of partygoers himself. “I don’t see any likely suspects.” He turned back to face Walter, eyeing him up and down. “I take it you weren’t a matched set.”

“I didn’t even know her name.”

The red-haired young man shook his head. “That’s sad.” His sympathy, while perhaps genuine, was masked by a mischievous smile. “Still,” he went on, “the night is still quite young. And so are we.” He took a deep breath as he stared out over the crowd once more, but his attention seemed to be focused elsewhere. He turned toward Walter again and offered his hand. “The name’s Red.”

Walter paused a moment, waiting to see if the young man would provide more. The young man just stared back at him, but Walter was certain that he saw a faint sparkle in his eyes. Thankful that his costume included gloves, he held out his own hand. “Walter,” he said.

“Walter,” Red echoed. “Walt.”

Walter’s lips twitched slightly. He did not really prefer the abbreviated of his name—not that he was all that wild about the long form of it either. Like others he knew who disliked their given name, he had weighed the option of using his middle name instead. Unfortunately, Ashby was even worse. Red did not seem to notice his reaction or, if he did, called no attention to it.

“Well,” Red said, straightening, “we can try to find her.” He looked casually over the crowd. “Or we can refresh ourselves and go after other prey.”

Something in Walter flinched at hearing the young woman referred to as “prey”. Yet, he had no better suggestion to counter with.

Some time later, Red had found them a relatively quiet spot just outside the main patio. It was sheltered from the occasional gusts of autumn wind and, equally important, dry. He had also procured two liter-sized bottles, each sporting a slightly different shape. He handed one to Walter and then proceeded to work the top off of the one that he had kept. He took a deep swallow of its contents, held it, and then lowered the bottle with a husky sigh.

Walter emulated the other young man’s actions, unscrewing the cap from his bottle and then taking a mouthful, nearly choking as he allowed it to wash down his throat. It burned slightly, yet also had a strangely sweet aftertaste.

“That bad?” Red asked, checking to make sure that his new companion was still breathing.

Walter nodded, his eyes tearing. “Rum,” he replied hoarsely. “I think.”

Even in shadowed light, Walter could see Red smile. The red-headed young man held out his bottle. “Here,” he said. “Try this one instead.”

The two swapped bottles. Walter waited several moments for his throat to recover from its previous abuse before sampling from the new bottle. He took just a cautious sip this time, and felt the liquid burn its way down to his stomach. Unlike before, though, this one left him with a warm inner glow.

“Better?” Red asked, watching him intently.

Walter nodded slowly and leaned back against the brick façade, closing his eyes. He felt strangely content and wanted to linger in the sensation for a moment.

“Scotch’ll do that,” he heard Red say, as if from a greater distance than the foot or so that separated them.

Walter said nothing, waiting silently for the warmth within him to fade.

#

August 28, 1977 . . .

The air was heavy and humid. Thick gray clouds the color of dull aluminum were piled thick in the sky. On the horizons, they were darker still, almost a smoky, oily black. There was a strange smell in the air as well, carried by the gusts of wind warm with late summer and seeming out of place in the growing gloom.

None of this mattered to Walter as he walked the hillside. There was little else here but grass and the occasional tree scattered along the gently sloping plain. And there was Abigail, who trudged through the dry, knee-high grass beside him. She carried her sweater while he toted the small ice chest in one hand and a rolled-up blanket tucked around the other. They both knew that rain was imminent, but they hoped to take refuge under one of the large old oak trees, sheltered from the expected downpour for at least a little while. Classes would begin again in another week, so there was no time to waste simply because the weather elected not to cooperate with their plans.

Abigail smiled at him as they reached the anticipated safety of the tree they had chosen. Walter could not help but smile back. There was something in the way she looked at him—adoringly?—that filled him with a confidence that he had rarely experienced with anyone else. Placing the chest down, he unfurled the blanket and, after several attempts each thwarted by the growing wind, finally laid it flat on the nearly barren dirt near the base of the tree. Walter moved the small ice chest, using its weight to hold down one corner of the blanket. Across from him, Abigail lowered herself to sit with her legs tucked at an angle beneath her. She looked at Walter and, in that moment, she looked as purely beautiful as anything he could ever recall.

He sat down facing her, feeling inexplicably awkward. Without a chair at hand, he never knew exactly how to sit. Sitting cross-legged had once been the most comfortable, but had become less so as he reached adolescence and his body became lanky and his legs felt too long in proportion. He settled for resting on his knees, his legs straight out behind him. There was a long silence as neither of them seemed to know what to say.

“You thirsty?” Walter asked, sounding lame even in his own ears.

“Sure,” Abigail smiled. There was something subtle and almost coy in the way she watched him.

Walter opened the chest, trying to remember whether he had decided to smuggle a couple of bottles of beer along with the cans of soda. He had not after all, which was fine with him. Abigail, as far as he knew, had never sneaked a drink, nor even hinted that she might want to do so. There was something about wholesome demeanor that appealed greatly to him, even with all of his own small vices. What she saw in him, he did not truly know, but he was grateful for it.

He raised two cans from the interior of the chest. Abigail looked momentarily thoughtful and then pointed toward the one in his left hand. Walter placed the other one on the blanket, opened the can she had selected, and passed it to her. She accepted it with a smile and took a small, obligatory sip.

Walter opened his own can, silently relieved that she had chosen the lemon-lime-flavored one, leaving him with the root beer. He considered pulling out the sandwiches and bag of potato chips, but they had eaten only slightly more than an hour before and they would be doing it just for something to do.

The silence between them returned. Around them, the field grasses whispered in the wind. Overhead, the leaves rustled and there was the occasional faint creak from a branch high overhead. Walter felt the wind tug at his hair, blowing it away from his ears. Abigail has pulled her own back into a single ponytail, which he now saw that she had released. Her hair, the color of roasted chestnuts, fell forward, following the curves of her body. The freed tresses danced in the wind like pleats of dark gossamer. She stared at him and all thoughts of food were replaced by a new desire.

The blanket was not large, so he did not have to shift his body much to move closer to her. Her eyes watched him as he moved, but her expression betrayed nothing of her thoughts. Walter leaned forward and kissed her, feeling her warm lips willingly accept his own.

They parted for only a moment and then met again. Walter felt her hands rest lightly on his shoulders as he took her closer into his arms. She moaned ever so lightly and he kissed her again, feeling her arms encircle his waist now. He could felt the strands of her hair between them as the soft mounds of her breasts pressed against him. He felt flushed and warm and completely content in that moment. Then followed an instant of surprise as her fingers brushed the front of his jeans. His body froze for an instant at the sudden contact. He looked at her, worried that she had detected his lapse, but her eyes were turned downward, clearly aware of what her hands were doing.

Walter swallowed against a sudden lump in his throat. Abigail’s fingers worked the buttons of his jeans and, as much as he would have willed to prevent it, he could felt his body reacting to her movements. While he could deny that he had dreamed—okay, more than just dreamed—about a situation like this, he had not expected that it might happen today or there.

She had two buttons unfastened now. Walter’s cheeks felt like flame. Abigail must certainly be aware by now of how his body was responding to her touch. She was at the last, topmost button now. It was inaccessible behind the closed buckle of his belt. He swallowed again, discovering that it required much less effort this time. For what seemed like a very long moment he waited, wondering what she would do next.

Abigail now looked at him, her eyes studying his. Seeming to possess volition of their own, Walter’s hands moved to his belt and he felt his fingers working to open the buckle. He felt it open and fall free. Abigail’s eyes shifted downward for a moment and she unfastened the last metal button.